The Decorator
by black1beard
Summary: How often do you change your throne? The stained glass? The tapestries? Skyhold is filled to bursting with customizable decor, and we are all guilty of changing it frequently. But who is stuck dealing with our Inquisitors' capricious natures? Who decorates the Keep? This is a little one shot about the poor sod and his crew, who are desperately trying to keep up with us.


**Author's notes:** I've been playing a lot of Dragon Age Inquisition lately and there is something that struck me as odd. It was so easy to change various decor of the keep and sometimes I would change it multiple times in a few minutes. Then it occurred to me, who in Skyhold was in charge of decorating? My Inquisitors were certainly making their lives very difficult. This is my take on what happens behind the scenes in the Keep. And maybe, just maybe, you will pause before you change that throne, or switch out your stained glass. These guys work hard.

* * *

The Decorator

If there is one thing I, Damien Daniel Allard III, have learned, it is _never_ listen to your mother.

"It's a complete over haul, sir," Lizzy tells me, her ferelden voice flat and unemotional. Only her large hands betray her distress. In them, she clasps the orders tightly. Behind her, Samcen is taking his already thin, garishly adorned, elven body and somehow managing to make it even smaller.

I feel something in my brain snap.

 _Join the Inquisition,_ mother said. _It's a rising power,_ she said. _Meet exotic and_ influential _people. It will catapult your career. Stop slouching._ Ugh! Mothers. They take your nice, quiet lives and turn them upside down, inside out and backwards. I was perfectly happy with the way my life was going. I had steady employment as Chief Decorator for Lady Suaveterre's third summer estate. True, I was only in charge of the one estate… the one rarely used, off the beaten path estate, but I still impressed my patron. The soiree her ladyship held for her daughter's third birthday is still being talked about. But _no_. I just had to listen to mother.

You would think being the head decorator for the whole Inquisition, working directly beneath Lady Montilyet, would be a dream come true for one such as I. It may come as a bit of a surprise, but I have not suffered from an overabundance of social connections. I imagine if I hadn't hitched myself to the coattails of this rising star back in Haven, I probably wouldn't have even been considered for the position. But ever since we reached Skyhold, it's been hell.

"Maker's Breath," I blaspheme as I snatch the paper work from Lizzy's grasp. I glance down at the list, then back up at my two underlings. "This is the third time this week!"

"I know, messere," Samcen squeaks. He was rubbing his spindly hands together so vigorously that I half expected to see a layer of skin slough off. "Apparently… Her Worship… she… the Herald that is, she… umm… received a… new throne?" he says, anticipating the uproar that is swelling up inside me.

Its moments like this that make me miss the days back in Haven. Life was so much simpler. Hang a few banners, keep the Chantry looking nice and pious; that was all that was needed of me. Of course, it was also unbelievably difficult to get the materials I needed to keep up appearances for the Inquisition's few visiting dignitaries. Worse still, I was forced to do it alone. Commander Cullen, in particular, called my requests for more staff and better decor inane and superfluous. I didn't think his vocabulary even extended beyond the mono syllabic. Then that monster came and Haven burned.

I am not meant for fighting, you see. It's the pain, I think. And the blood. Did I mention pain? Ghastly stuff. Astonishingly, I survived. Sometimes, I wish I hadn't. For instance, right now.

"A new throne!?" I cry, throwing the documents down on the mountain of clutter that was once my desk, making the elf wince. Lizzy, however, barely even bats an eye. "Why wasn't I informed?" I demand.

Lizzy folds her massive arms and her dark brown eyes bore into me. "I thought that was what we was doing."

"You, my dear, are hilarious. You really must reconsider your choice of careers," I mock dryly, my sophisticated orlesian accent a stark contrast to her gauche ferelden drawl. I wet my quill and make a few notes in the margins of the request order. "I am certain Lady Montilyet could find an opening for you in entertainment."

Lizzy, as usual, does not respond to my jeering. I can never tell if she is too simple to pick up on my wit, or if she simply does not care. Obviously, it cannot be the latter. My opinions carry too much wait to be ignored.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, suppressing the growing tension headache clawing against the inside of my skull. This is the best the Inquisition has to offer me? A ferelden with zero tact and biceps that belonged on a troll. A dalish reject whose spine is as nonexistent as his fashion sense. And, down in the sub-basement where all the drapes, banners, stained glass windows and, yes, _thrones_ , are stored, a recently exiled dwarf who couldn't find his way out of a foot tall hedge maze.

I am not racist. Let's just get that out of the way. I have known several stone-heads, barbarians and knife-ears that were all decent sorts. However, they had all been _Orlesian_ , or at least close enough to be counted as one. I am open minded about these things. It's not the poor, unwashed mass's fault if an accident of birth saw them raised outside the glorious empire. They just have to recognize this tragedy, move to where the civilized reside, and adapt to proper society.

Shaking my head, I grab the papers and together, we head out the door. We make our way down one flight of stairs after another; urgency spurring my feet to take two steps at a time. It is already nearly midnight and we only have till sunrise to remake the entire Keep. That is the way it is done. We must work with great speed in order that the daily business of the Inquisition is not hampered in anyway. Regimes could fall if we fail.

"DUFF!" I cry, bursting through the heavy oak doors that lead into the sub-basement.

The room that serves as storage for the Inquisition's extensive collection of interior décor is massive. A whole dragon could probably reside in it quite comfortably. And it is fit to bursting with boxes of every size, filling up every nook and cranny. It is also unbearably stuffy. The few sconces flicker fitfully in the stale air, casting eerie shadows across the crates. To Duff, it probably feels just like home.

"I'm here, boss," the dwarf pipes up from somewhere to the right of me, several large crates muffling his voice. "Where are ya'?"

I smack my forehead. "The front door, Duff. Where else could I conceivably be?"

"Right." The room falls into silence. I hear the sound of feet scuffling across the ancient stone floor. After several minutes, he finally asks, "Uh, where is the door again?"

I sigh heavily. "Samcen."

"Yes, messere?" Under the dim light, his gaudy, bright pink face tattoo is almost bearable to look at. Still not sure how he managed to find the nerve to get that particular tattoo. Half of his face was nearly a solid block of color. Had to be painful.

"Go get him, please."

The elf darts off in the direction of Duff's voice. He walks along the rows of boxes, then takes a right and disappears out of view. It does not take him long to find the dwarf and guide him back out to us.

Duff seems dazed as he approaches. His red, scruffy beard is shabbier than usual and he looks like he hasn't changed into a new set of clothes since the last time I saw him. Black smudges cover his hands and face.

I wince. "I hope you haven't been touching any of the drapes with those hands."

The dwarf looks down at his hands, then back up at me. "Of course not, boss. I ain't stupid. Been buffing the Tevinter statuary. Noticed a nasty patina developing last time we brought them back down. Banner restoration ain't till the _end_ of the month."

"Well, we have a complete overhaul…"

"Ain't that the third one this week?"

"New throne," Lizzy explains from behind me.

Duff looks around him. "I thought it looked like there were more boxes."

"Maker preserve me," I grind out. What did I ever do to deserve these imbeciles? Turning to my now assembled team, I draw on hidden reserves of patience and begin setting the task at hand. "The Inquisitor has received a new throne from," I glance down at my notes, "Madame Vivienne. It is of the Circle of Magi. And, apparently, Her Worship has already acquired additional accessories for the throne. So, when we get upstairs, Duff," I point to the dwarf. "You're on throne duty."

"Will do, boss," Duff salutes.

"As for the rest of you," I continue, "The Inquisitor has requested the Magi drapes, but the banners, heraldry, décor, and stained glass are all to be Andrastian. As for her bed, we need the Orlais number three. Samcen!"

The elf jumps. "Err, yes?"

"Once you get everything up the hole, you are in charge of setting up the tables, chairs and statuary. Duff will help you when he is done with the throne. Lizzy!" I turn to the behemoth of a woman.

"Yes, sir."

"You are on cloth duty." Contrary to her looks, the barbarian has a feathery touch. Only she can be trusted to pin up the delicate bolts cloth without tearing it. "I want those drapes up in an hour. I will take the bedroom. Any questions?"

"No, Head Decorator!" My underlings cry as one.

Without so much as a word, Samcen turns on his heels, twirling his hands above his head. An unearthly blue glow falls over several crates and they rise from the floor. Like a conductor directing a symphony, he guides them up the large hole in the ceiling. Thank Andraste the previous owners of Skyhold built this room with access to the Undercroft, the Inquisitor's personal forge. It leads directly to the throne room.

I send Lizzy to grab Duff's tools for him, fearing he will just get lost again. With one last glance at the orders in my hand, I head back up the many flights of stairs with my team in tow. It was going to be a very long night.

* * *

"Oh, Inquisitor, it is lovely." I hear a woman say as consciousness washes over me like thick sludge.

"I'm glad you like it, Madame Vivienne. I hoped it would bring you some cheer after what happened."

"Aren't you just the sweetest thing? You didn't have to do all this, darling. Certainly not on my account."

"You lost someone you loved, Vivienne. This was the least I could do."

"I am at a loss for words. Thank you my dear."

Two women. What did they call each other? Inquisitor and Madame Vivienne? It takes a moment for those names to register. But once they do… Oh Maker. Where am I?

Slowly, I open my eyes, heart full of dread. The first thing I see is a lovely ceramic cup, painted with intricate gold and blue tigers. I recognize it immediately. It is a part of a very expensive set from 3:20 Blessed. I had laid it out, along with several other beautiful and rare pieces, in the wee hours of the morning. It was a very important lesson I had learned in the early years of my career. Large, elegant drapes and statuary are all fine and good, but do not focus solely on them, for the guest surely won't. It is the details, the little things that are not always seen, that tie it all together.

The presence of this cup meant only one thing; I was not safely tucked away in my room. I was exactly where a director should never be, center stage opening night. Apparently, I was left, unconscious, for Maker knows how many hours in the main hall. My underlings are going to die, _painfully_.

Panic, cold and hard, sweeps threw my body. Maybe nobody has noticed me. I can slip out the back and no one will be the wiser. Everything can go on as before. I look around and realize it is already too late. Directly across from me, a young man I have never seen before, stares at me. He is dirty and pale, with a large nose sticking out from under a wide brimmed hat.

"Don't leave yet," the strange boy says softly to me. "I know you think your place is behind us, hidden and secret. Must keep up appearances, must craft the world so all is smooth and right. Like a cocoon. No like the leaf that hides the cocoon, so no one knows that the butterfly was once the caterpillar."

My eyes narrow at his strange cadence. The words he uses are wrong, and yet somehow he speaks of a deeper truth I cannot grasp. My head begins to hurt.

"I have no idea what you are saying, young man, but I really must be going," I say warily as I try to rise from the table. Faster than any human could move, the boy's hand lashes out and grabs me, pulling me back down to the table with an audible thump. "What are you…?!"

"She has something to say," the boy insists. "It's important, for you and her. Let her say it."

"Master Allard?" A voice everyone in the Inquisition knew well, says from behind me. "What a pleasant surprise."

I twist in my chair and stare up into the dark eyes of the Herald herself. She is absolutely radiant. Strong and beautiful, she has survived much and made hard decisions that few would have the strength to confront. I know she is a mage of terrible power, and yet, I do not fear her. To be in her presence is to know you are safe. She is a true leader in every sense of the word. And she was looking right at me, smiling.

"Lady Inquisitor," I yelp as I stumble out of my chair and trip into a graceless bow. She knows my name!?

She smiles at my antics, but does not laugh. "Is Cole bothering you?"

A frown creases my forehead. "Who?" I feel a strange scratching inside my head. A piece of memory is slightly askew. I look around at the table. It is empty. I woke up alone, didn't I? But why do I feel like I have been talking with someone?

The Inquisitor gives me a cryptic look, then turns to the dark, elegant woman beside her. "Madame Vivienne, this is Master Allard III, Head Decorator."

"A pleasure," she says as she offers me her hand.

I feel my knees knock together slightly as I take her hand and bow politely over it. Anyone who is anyone in Orlais knows of Madame De Fer. The fierce, shrewd, First Enchanter whose grasp is only barely contained by her station as a mage. Until this moment, we had never actually met. Of course, I had hopes of climbing the social ladder, but one does not simply waltz up to Madame Vivienne and says hi. You have to go through the right channels. A mutually known third party must be brought in to make introductions. Otherwise, you may end up a social pariah, another casualty of the Game. Or you may end up dead. No telling when the Iron Lady is involved.

"Madame," I say, amazed that I manage to keep the quaver from my voice.

"You have done a spectacular job here in Skyhold, my dear," Madame Vivienne says to me. "When all this is said and done, I will have to inform my friends at court of your work."

I gulp and nod. It is too good to be true. A recommendation like hers could see me to the very top of the social sphere. Why, I could even be the next man to decorate the Winter Palace. My heart skips a beat at that and I force myself to not clutch at my chest. Maker, I pray, don't let my heart give out.

"I believe I have a few items I must attend to," the First Enchanter intones as she turns to the Herald. "I shall see you later this evening. Good day to you both."

Out of the frying pan and into the fire. I am now alone with the most powerful being in Thedas. Shifting uncomfortably, my eyes dart longingly to the nearest exit. Don't be ungrateful, I remind myself. Few get the chance to be in the Herald's presence. A little voice in my head adds; I doubt she will kill you. At least, she won't without a really good reason. So, just don't give her a reason to kill you. That simple. Thank you brain. You know just how to make me feel worse.

"Walk with me, Damien. May I call you Damien?" I nod a little dumbfounded. She knows my first name? "Good," she smiles, and again I am astounded by her beauty and grace. "Call me Evelyn."

My brain stops. First name bases? Was that good? Was that bad? Crap. I am taking too long to respond. "Thank you, Lady Inquis… I mean, Evelyn."

She sighs a little and directs me out through the door that leads to the gardens. "Our ambassador always warns me not to insist that people talk to me without my titles. But I have spent fifteen years of my life where the only titles I could achieve were based on my position within the Ostwick Circle. Having a title now," she looks up at the trees in the garden wistfully as we pass them, "it unnerves me a little."

The Inquisitor, I mean, Evelyn looks at me, seeking some sort of acknowledgment for what she is saying. Admittedly, I find the notion insane. Rank and title is all there is. One works and kills to gain it, then one works and kills to keep it. But then I remember, mages are denied titles. She is probably the first mage outside of Tevinter to hold land and title since the days before Andraste. That would unnerve anyone.

I nod solemnly and she smiles.

"I have been meaning to talk to you for some time," she says as we head up a flight of stairs and onto the ramparts.

I look out over the walls of Skyhold and my breath catches in my throat. For miles in every direction, I can see everything with crystal clarity. Thedas unfurls its splendor like a blooming flower. The early morning sunlight casts colors of gold and pink over the snow covered mountain tops. In the distance I can just make out a pair of eagles soaring majestically threw the sky. And for a moment, I am there with them.

This is what the Inquisition is fighting for. This world full of wonder. And I, as small as the role I play may be, am a part of it.

"It's beautiful," I whisper into the oddly comfortable silence that has fallen between us. Of course, I have seen this view before, but rarely do I see it the morning. My work has forced me to become more nocturnal, and, thus, sunsets are what I usually see. But this light, it is not the weary light one gazes upon at the end of the day; old, tired, and having seen too much. This light is crisp and clean and full of promise for the day that has just barely begun.

"It is," the Inquisitor… Evelyn… I am never going to get used to this… agrees. Then, turning to me she asks, "Damien, have you ever wondered why I hired you?"

The use of my first name on those lips brings me to sharp attention again. "Umm," I fidget and for the second time that day I wish I was back in my bed. How does one answer a question like that when your boss is asking? Especially when your boss is the Inquisitor and the Herald of Andraste. I decide to hedge. "Truthfully?"

"Truthfully," the woman who could incinerate me with a thought confirms.

"Truthfully, I thought it was because the Inquisition hadn't gained enough clout to hire anyone better." Well, it was a nice life. A bit shorter then I would have liked, but nice.

Instead of all the demons of the Fade set loose and thundering down on my poor head, I hear a laugh. The Herald had laughed. Oh, thank the Maker. Not dead yet.

"Yah," she laughed again, her eyes dancing, "I figured you would think that. I will have you know, Josephine had presented me with some ridiculous number of applicants. What was it…"

Josephine? Who the hell is Josephine, I wonder. By the time it takes me to remember that Josephine is, in fact, Lady Montilyet's first name, she had remembered the number.

"I think it was twenty six."

"Wait, what?"

"Yep," she confirms with a wink, "twenty six applicants. And at least half had resumes that spanned three pages."

I cringed. Mine was short. It barely took up a page, and that was stretching the size of the calligraphy.

"I chose you for a reason." She turned to me and placed a small object in my hand. The care she took handling the small item, it was like she was handing me a priceless treasure.

I open my hand and stare curiously down at the small piece of metal I now hold. It is a single gold caprice. A useless bit of coinage used as part of a rather silly game. The objective? Gather as many coins as you can at a soiree and throw them in the fountain. There was no real point to it, accept maybe showing how popular you were.

"Um," I say lamely, confused by this odd gift.

"I was ten years old when I was sent to the Ostwick Circle," she cryptically explains, eyes scanning the distant horizon. I breathe a sigh of relief. At least, she does not seem offended by my lack of recognition. "A week before my powers manifested, my mother took me to a party. I didn't know anyone there. And most of the guests were either under five years of age, or nearly forty. I was lonely, and wondered off. Then," she smiles and looks at me, "a young man sees me. He gave me this coin and said, 'A sad face does not belong at a party, my lady. And it is my proud duty to ensure they do not linger.'"

My eyes open wide as I recall the encounter. Lady Suaveterre's party for her daughter. After all these years, I still felt its influence.

"I was so happy," she says to me. "Someone in that big glittering world cared about a lonely little girl."

"I was simply doing my duty, my lady," I say modestly. "A decorator must care for the happiness and wellbeing of all guests, no matter how small."

"And so few recognize this," she says, and places her hand on my shoulder. "That was the last party of my childhood. You helped to make it a precious memory. And that is why I chose you over all the other applicants. I am pleased to see my faith was not miss placed."

Evelyn, the Inquisitor, smiles wistfully at me for a moment. Perhaps, she is remembering a simpler time. A time when she was not a leader of a vast army, nor a great hero to the world. Perhaps, in me she sees a time when all that mattered was a small kindness and a golden coin. I do not know how long this spell lasted, but finally it breaks.

Once again, I see the weight of the world settle back around the Inquisitor's shoulders. She sighs and says, "Thank you for your time, Master Allard. I know you had a long night."

"It… It was no trouble, Inquisitor," I stammer. I reach out and offer the tarnished caprice.

She looks down at the little lump of metal in my hand, then back up at me and smiles. "Keep it. Consider it a gift, from one old friend to another."

And with that, she leaves. I stare dumbfounded at the little coin in my hands. Then all the adrenaline and fear catches up with me and my knees give out. I stumble and brace myself against the strong stone walls of Skyhold, clenching at my breast. My poor heart. I can feel its staccato rhythm beating frantically against my ribcage. Did all that actually happen? I pinch myself and wince. Yep. Real.

Slowly, steadily, I make my way back into the main keep. I was going to need a lie down.

* * *

Back down at my desk, I slowly flip the little caprice from one knuckle to the next. After a calming cup of tea, or three, I am finally able to accept all that has happened to me with grace and poise. Apparently, I have been under valuing myself. I was not runner up. I was not a fluke. I was important. Of course, I always knew I was, but this was different. I was important to the Inquisitor herself.

As my chest began to fill with pride, the door to my study opens. It's Lizzy and Samcen. I decide to leave off the tirade about them leaving me unconscious in the main hall. I'm in a good mood. And sometimes, I can be generous.

"Come in," I tell them with a smile. "Isn't it a wonderful day?"

"Sir?" Lizzy asks, perturbed by my cheerfulness. "Are you okay? You didn't hit your head or nothin'?"

"Couldn't be better. Couldn't be better. Now, what is it?"

"Um," Lizzy looks nervously over at Samcen whose eyes dart wildly about the room, as if expecting a trap. "We have new orders, sir."

"Let me see," I say with a smile and the knowledge that nothing can upset my mood.

She hands me the document and I begin to read. After a few lines, my heart drops. No. It can't be. It just not fair!

"It's a complete overhaul," I hear Lizzy say and my brain snaps.


End file.
